


Diversion

by gardnerhill



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Without a Clue (1988)
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:25:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's gambling, and then there's the great game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diversion

Down the alleyway; look every which way – bloodhound, Kincaid, think _bloodhound_ with your moves – and every now and then stop and pounce on a completely pointless bit of rubbish or look up at the angle of rust on a balcony and nod knowingly. It just had to look eccentric enough to baffle the police and the civilians – Lestrade half a step and half a move behind him, the eager _Daily_ reporter who'd promised a brilliant front-page story ("'In the Tracks of Sherlock Holmes,' eh? How does that sound?"). Let them follow his every move while Watson quietly glided behind them all, collecting the data he needed without letting on to anyone. 

"I say, Mr. Holmes, what about – " the reporter poked a long ink-stained finger over his shoulder – and his mind full of _bloodhound_ Kincaid turned his head and snarled as if he was going to bite it. The finger disappeared. "Crikey!"

"Mr. Henderson, do refrain from disturbing Mr. Holmes," Watson called. "I'm afraid he gets quite wrapped up in his work."

The smell got stronger – the sea, creosote, lumber, unwashed men – as they neared the alley's entrance. Noises from more and more people watching this strange parade of men. Voices – English, Dutch, Chinese, German, the mad polyglot of the dock. Men shouting wares, sailors cursing, pulleys creaking, dice rattling…

Dice. 

Suddenly all Kincaid heard was that solid rattle of bones – the way a child only hears the tinkling bell over the sweet-shop door. The old gaping hunger awoke in him, the _need_ rising in his blood like lust. The camaraderie over the table, the glorious moment of uncertainty, the thrill of the coins balanced on that chance as they bounced over the felt (or danced in a wooden box) – even the drop as, nearly every single time, the pips showed up wrong and his money was swept away. 

Did he have any money with him? A pound note or two, a few shillings – his hands sweated at the thought of laying down the money, taking up the dice – 

"Holmes?" 

He clenched his fist in his pocket, shook his head minutely. He'd been gaping at that dice box like an idiot. No, Reginald Kincaid had been gaping, and dammit right now he was Sherlock bloody Holmes. "A passing thought, Watson – but no, it's of no connection with our man," he smoothly replied. It was good to know that Watson was skilled enough as a writer to handle that slip and make it thoroughly in Holmes' character on the page – even as he himself was skilled enough as an actor to improvise in a tight spot when he'd dropped character for a moment. 

Watson's only reply was to whistle a tuneless little thing between his teeth, a nautical air. _Hoist her up, me bonny bonny boys…_ …Up.

He looked up sharply, like a pointer signaling game. 

"Holmes, what is it?" Watson piped up eagerly, closing the space between them and surreptitiously tapping Kincaid's left shoulder, so he looked more to the left. "I see it too! That kerchief on the window-ledge, surely!" 

A ragged bit of knitting on the sill, it meant nothing to Kincaid but was everything to Sherlock Holmes. "Bravo, Watson," he said, not hiding his genuine affection. "I think the net is closing in on our quarry very nicely now, don't you?"

Lestrade blinked. Henderson scribbled. Both studiously ignored the doctor. 

And forty-seven minutes later, the Blakely disappearance was solved. 

*** 

In the cab heading home, Kincaid exhaled so loudly the horse's ears flicked. "That was close."

Watson eyed this portrayer of his fictional detective. "There was a time you wouldn't have given a tinker's damn, and just stepped up to the dice-box – the way you'd have ducked into a pub or ogled a street girl." 

"Reggie Kincaid loves all those things, Watson," the man said, flashing his charming grin. "But Sherlock Holmes doesn't." 

Watson shook his head wryly. "I swear, you like the man more than I do, and I created him!"

"But only out of necessity," Kincaid countered, fumbling for a cigarette, "because society doesn't want to hear sordid police matters coming from the mouth of a respectable medical man – and if you hadn't had the Sherlockston file topmost on your desk, you could have named the bloke Sherringford or Shelley Holmes! But your necessity has become my life's work – and my finest piece of acting, even if the only appreciative audience members are you, Mrs. Hudson, and those insufferable brats of yours." He struck a match and lit up rapturously. 

John Watson chuckled a little. "Yes, your interpretation of Holmes is a good deal more interesting than The Crime Doctor would have been! And I've noticed that you're getting better at keeping Lestrade and the press occupied."

Kincaid looked down at his hand, and how it had itched to wrap around the dice in the alley. "Perhaps that's why I was able to resist, Watson." He looked out the cab window as they rattled past the Thames. "This game we're both running? Making all of London look for the pea under the wrong cup?" 

Watson matched his employee's – his friend's – grin. "Higher stakes and bigger risks than losing your rent over a few cards, eh?" 

"And if I slip up, it's both our shirts." He exhaled smoke and smiled – not Reggie Kincaid's friendly grin but Sherlock Holmes' thin-lipped smile. "The game, as ever, is on."


End file.
